


draw an invisible picture for me

by bittereternity



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Post-Alchemy, Pre-Slash, only if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittereternity/pseuds/bittereternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before my first date with Maeve, I had a hairbrush in my hand and a staring contest with my mirror for a full ten minutes,” Reid informs. “I was vastly overwhelmed by my own lack of impressiveness.”</p><p>As he tries to come to terms with Maeve's death, Reid decides that Hotch is the perfect person to be his impromptu grief counselor. Too bad no one thought about informing Hotch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	draw an invisible picture for me

**Author's Note:**

> So I can't possibly be the only one wanting to write something based on the Hotch/Reid scenes post-Maeve! This is my take on what could have happened, and really, it's a lot less angsty than the whole premise would suggest. It's a slice-of-life fic, so it takes place around the cases.

there are no happy endings.  
endings are the saddest part.  
so just give me a happy middle  
and a very happy start.

Shel Silverstein, _Every Thing on It_

_*_

When Reid shows up at his front door with three books tucked under his left arm and holding a jug of... something in his right hand, Hotch feels that he is more than entitled to blink stupidly at him for a good five minutes.

"It's one in the morning," he finally says, with a quick glance towards the dial of Reid's wristwatch.

Reid looks very unimpressed at the fact that he's just woken up his boss up. In fact, Hotch thinks vaguely as he tries to shake off the last of his sleep, he looks more alive than he's looked throughout the last few weeks.

"I'm not high," Reid points out, "or suicidal." Hotch wasn't actually thinking it, but it's still a relief to hear the confirmation. Hotch steps back and allows him to step in despite his better judgement; after all, he thinks, it cannot be very polite to let a guest freeze to death at your doorstep.

"What's with the jug?" he finally asks, and Reid spins back to face him. "It's iced tea," he states, and suddenly Hotch finds his field of vision narrowed to a jug being waved in front of his face.

"Iced tea?" he asks doubtfully.

Reid shrugs. Thankfully ceases the jug-waving. "I didn't know which type of alcohol you would prefer," he replies. When Hotch stays quiet, he places the jug on the kitchen counter and turns to face his boss and folds his arm in his chest.

"Say something," he almost orders.

Hotch discreetly pinches himself, and finds that he is disappointed at being awake. "I've found that more often than not, me saying something results in you simply walking out," he points out.

Reid's lips twitch. "I thought that's what you wanted."

Hotch looks down at his feet and takes a deep breath to stop the damn laughter bubbling in his chest. He's too polite to say something pedestrian like _cheeky motherfucker_ but he still feels a little like a passive-aggressive jerk as he shoots back a "I don't know what you want me to say."

Reid purses his lips. "Hotch," he says wearily.

Reid doesn't apologize, has never apologized for an uncanny ability to stick shards of glasses into chests and leaving people unable to breathe; never elicited a word of regret for sharp words or jagged glances or being able to make Hotch scrape his nails into his palms.

Hotch sighs.

“I keep dreaming about Maeve,” Reid says, voice flat and firm and unsettling on more levels than Hotch can care to count. “On a scale of one to ten, how unnatural is that?”

And that, Hotch supposes, is the difference between Reid and all the failed years of his marriage to Haley. That Haley was always unwilling to admit to being at fault, leaving him to acquiesce every time he wanted to avoid a confrontation that would inevitably lead to him sleeping on the front porch, and that Reid’s refusal to acknowledge fault stems not out of a convoluted sense of ignorance, but from a firm resolution that his actions were, under a particular set of circumstances, _correct._

Hotch looks at Reid, standing in his kitchen with a pile of books under his arm and a coat haphazardly buttoned over his pajamas.

There is a jug of questionable iced-tea dripping on his kitchen counter.

He sighs and relents. He finds himself doing that a lot when Reid is concerned, much to his chagrin. “That depends,” he says carefully, “on what you mean by _dreams._ ”

Reid’s whole posture relaxes, and he sits, uninvited, on Hotch’s couch and tucks his feet underneath himself. With growing horror, Hotch tries to simultaneously suppress the urge to kiss his forehead and yell at him for getting skid marks on the couch.

Instead, he satisfies himself with: “What’s with the books?”

“Oh,” Reid finally turns and looks at them. He even has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Just a bit of light reading in case I don’t feel asleep.” He mistakes Hotch’s expression and asks, “I assume the guest bedroom is down the hall?”

Hotch bites his lip and wonders the effectiveness of death by head-banging.

“Yes,” is all he says.

*

“Morgan thinks I’m not dealing with my grief,” Reid announces without preamble, walking into Hotch’s office without invitation and leaving the door swinging behind him.

Hotch grits his teeth and very carefully sets his pen down. “You know,” he bites out in a low voice, “one would think that I would get the slightest bit of respect from my coworkers. Considering that I’m your _boss_ and can fire you in a heartbeat and all that jazz.”

“One would think that,” Reid agrees, “but one’s work hours have ended at five and it’s now seven.”

Hotch has the distinct feeling that his teeth may turn to powder very, very soon. “And you won’t fire me,”  Reid continues like nothing has happened, “I’m too employable.”

He smiles despite himself. “Adding arrogance to that list of qualities, are we?”

Reid merely frowns. “Is it arrogance if it’s the truth?”

Hotch sighs. “You said something about Morgan?” he asks.

Reid stiffens almost imperceptibly. “He says I’m not dealing with my grief. So I told him that I’ve been talking to you lately.”

Hotch bares his teeth in a manner that he’s sure doesn’t even _remotely_ resemble a smile. “Oh you did, did you?” he mutters.

Reid looks at him with wide eyes. He would look worldly and utterly innocent if not for the wrinkles around his eyes. _He’s too old for his age_ is what comes unbidden to Hotch’s mind.

“So I thought that we could go back to my place and you could cook us something while we talked,” Reid states without a trace of a question.

It amazes Hotch over and over again, how much Reid is willing to stretch the limits of _normal_ before moving on to _plain, fucking creepy._

“Can’t _you_ cook?” Hotch asks, and for his own sanity, decides to focus on the insignificant.

Reid exhales complicatedly. On someone else, Hotch would label it as a derisive snort. “ _Of course_ I know how to cook. Did you really think that I subsisted for two decades on frozen food and sugar?”

Hotch hesitates. “Well,” he says.

Reid waves a hand, as if to erase this minor distraction from his main course of action. “Look, I even got that bottle of scotch you like, and you make an _excellent_ frittata. I’m just proposing the optimum use of resources.”

Hotch is pretty sure that the sound coming out from his mouth _is_ a snort of derision. “It’s not particularly difficult to beat _eggs_ ,” he points out even as he feels his resolve crumbling.

“But I’m _grieving_ ,” Reid emphasizes, like it’s important. And this would be the point, as far as conversations in his life go, that Hotch would simply _give up._ Except Reid; kind, sweet, generous Reid with an uncanny inability to _lie_ is standing before him and announcing that he’s grieving in the same voice that he would use to announce the weather. And Hotch can see the cracks, even as he doesn’t want to. Can see, can recognize the slight clenching of Reid’s fists, the minute shuffling of his feet, the reek of coffee all over his sweater and the lightest bead of sweat on his upper lip all too well.

“You’re grieving,” he allows.

Reid smiles slightly. “Good,” he announces. “You should hurry, I’m starving.”

In his defense, the glare he sends Reid’s way is mostly involuntary. Reid, of course, blinks back in an owlish fashion and ruins the effect.

*

“She asks me to _dance_ ,” Reid whispers, bringing his lips far close to Hotch’s ears for his liking, even though it’s just the two of them on the jet and there’s still a half hour before they are scheduled to take off. Hotch normally makes it a point to be early, and recently Reid looks like he’s regularly forgoing sleep in favor of copious amounts of coffee and inappropriate segues.

Hotch almost misses the times when Reid would storm into the jet at the last possible moment with unkempt hair and a sloshing mug of coffee.

“ _What_?” he is forced to exclaim when he fails to recognize any possible metaphor in Reid’s words.

Reid sits across him. “In my dreams,” he clarifies. “Every time I go to sleep, I see her and she’s asking me to _dance,_ of all things. And I keep thinking to myself that I _must_ have told her in my letters at some point that I can’t dance in any form or fashion. I keep thinking and thinking about it but I can never be _sure,_ you know, and I know that she is still waiting for my answer and I don’t want to disappoint her. It’s all very vague and cloudy.”

“So you wake up?” Hotch asks.

“So I wake up,” Reid finishes.

Hotch clears his throat and concentrates on his phone for a few moments. “I dreamt of Haley too, sometimes,” he finally ventures. It feels fragile, like he’s pulling out a piece of himself and trusting Reid to guard it. He isn’t delusional enough to think that Reid might return the favor. “It was mostly a montage of different memories from when she was alive rather than a _new_ scenario, so your situation _does_ seem a little unusual.”

Reid leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, giving Hotch a full view off the bones sticking out. He adds a mental note to add more butter to the spaghetti the next time around.

It’s _scary_ , that he wants a next time of whatever this thing they have concocted is.

Reid favors him with a self-deprecating smile. “Unusual seems to be the theme of my life,” he agrees.

Hotch doesn’t reply, preferring to concentrate on navigating around on his phone. He looks up after a few minutes and sets his phone back on the table.

“Sorry about that,” he says, “but you should check your email soon.”

Reid frowns. “It’s a video,” Hotch explains, looks at his hands as speaks, “that explains the basics of ballroom dancing. It’s sixty-seven minutes long, but, you know, you only need to see it _once_.”

He looks up to see Reid _looking_ at him; his freakishly long fingers clutch blindly at his own hair and his lips trembling slightly. It occurs to Hotch suddenly that he doesn't have a _clue_ what to do if Reid starts crying. Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“I don’t dance,” Reid repeats, instead.

“You could learn to,” Hotch points out.

Reid keeps looking at him, still with the slightest tremble to his lips like he has _found_ something, and Hotch has to look away. “I could kiss you right now,” Reid announces finally.

Hotch briefly wonders if he’s being serious. “I have no intention of becoming your rebound anything,” he replies, all deadpan.

Reid’s lips twitch. “Ah. What _is_ the appropriate time frame, then?”

Involuntarily, Hotch feels his face heat up even as he perfectly aware that Reid is joking. He opens his mouth a few seconds later to formulate a reply, but Reid has already whipped out his phone and put on his earphones.

*

“Okay, I give,” Hotch concedes. “This is a _clearly_ superior spaghetti bolognese. Is there a secret ingredient that I should be aware of?”

Reid smiles cheekily. “Love? The sheer magic of my hands?” he muses aloud.

Hotch snorts into his glass of wine. “Fine, it’s extra garlic and cilantro,” Reid informs him.

“It’s very good,” Hotch repeats again. He takes in his surroundings, the two plates of food, the bowl of spaghetti and the bottle of wine between them. “This is very domestic,” he muses out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Reid replies, all teeth. “Do you want me to make it uncomfortable by serving chocolate covered strawberries for desert? Because I can absolutely do that.”

Hotch helps himself to more wine. “Sounds _uncannily_ like a conversation I would have with Beth,” he observes.

There is a moment of silence as Reid chews through his mouthful. It makes Hotch oddly grateful that Reid as a dinner companion is also anti- food spitting. That’s a rare quality these days, he thinks to himself.

“Speaking of Beth,” Reid starts, and his voice is a little more halting than it was before. “How is it going with you two?"

Hotch sets down his fork and carefully wipes his mouth on his napkin. “Well,” he says carefully, “I blew off a Skype date with her so I could have dinner with you. How do _you_ think it’s going?”

Reid gives him that wide-eyed look again. “Is there something going _wrong_?” he asks carefully.

Hotch feels a bizarre need to apologize for his earlier comment. Doesn't  “Nothing is wrong, per se,” he chooses his words carefully. “It just could be more… right?”

They eat in silence for a while as Reid mulls over the new information in his head. “Is it me?” he asks.

Hotch decides it’s safer to play the fool. “Is _what_ you?”

Reid huffs in impatience. “Is it me, is this _thing_ we’re doing hindering your relationship. God, Hotch, how are you not understanding this?”

Hotch tries to smile at him. “Come on Reid, you’re not _that_ important to me,” he jokes.

Reid looks at him over his glass of wine and Hotch has the sinking feeling that he isn’t fooling _anyone_.

*

“Reid told us that he’s talking to you about Maeve,” Rossi announces as he unceremoniously marches into Hotch’s office. In his peripheral vision, Hotch can see Morgan, JJ and Garcia making their way up the stairs and swears to himself, feels insanely glad that Blake hasn’t reached this new and particularly invasive level of _comfort._

“Shouldn’t this,” he waves his hand around vaguely, “ _intervention_ be for Reid?” He feels the exhaustion creeping up; it’s been yet another case where Reid had walked around inhaling coffee like oxygen and coming up with breakthroughs without any linear thought process. It’s excellent, in terms of the case, but that just increases their concern.

“Are you _sure_ you’re talking to him?” Rossi’s voice is patronizing and it grates on him. He deliberately doesn't look up from his paperwork, but he can see that everyone has filed into his office by now. He wonders how Blake will explain this collective absence to Reid when he gets back from teaching a class at the Academy.

“What’s going on with him, Hotch?” Garcia asks, and despite her concern, manages to make it sounds like it were _his_ fault Reid was struggling. He puts down his pen for good and folds his arms across his chest.

“You know I’m your boss, right?” he looks each of them in the eye in turn. “I can _fire_ all of you, and I must be doing a very poor job of leading the team if I have to keep _reminding_ you of this fact.” He very carefully doesn’t dwell on the increasing hysterical note to his voice.

“Oh please,” Rossi scoffs. “Fire us and you have to do _interviews_ for new recruits. We both know that it would be a pain in your ass.”

Hotch wholeheartedly agrees, and doesn’t let it show on his face.

“I’ve been talking to Reid,” he confirms, instead.

“ _About?”_ Morgan leans in anxiously. Hotch leans back imperceptibly, mostly because the chicken tikka on Morgan’s breath just reminds him that he’s forgotten his lunch. Again.

“It’s private,” is all he says.

“That’s bullshit,” Morgan all but explodes on him, but Rossi is tactful enough to stop him there. “All we’re saying is that Reid is going through something terrible, even unimaginable to most of us, and we all care for him.” His voice is pacifying as he continues, “which is why we would sleep a little better if we knew that someone is out there looking out for him. Or, at least, that someone is out there for him when he’s finally ready to talk.”

And the thing is, Hotch can understand, and he’s even _glad_ that everyone is trying to care for Spencer in their own way, but it doesn’t _stop_ him from being irritated that they’re unconsciously forcing him to reach a stage in his grieving that he simply isn’t ready for. _They don’t understand him like I do_ is what he thinks, overlooking its sheer childishness, overlooking the thought that he hasn’t allowed himself to be possessive in a very long time.

It doesn’t, however, stop him from voicing his doubts. “And you think I’m the someone?” he asks.

They look at him doubtfully. He can pretty much see the _no_ illuminated on their faces in big, neon lights.

“Well, Reid seems to think so,” Garcia offers tactfully.

Out of nowhere, in a move that quite horrifyingly reminds him of Haley’s hormonal changes during her pregnancy, he feels something inside him _shift_ and shatter.

“I’m sorry I’m not doing a good job of helping Reid,” he says quietly, and surprises himself by meaning every single word.

He can almost _feel_ them soften in front of him. They take it as a cue to leave, something for which he is immensely grateful.

Rossi stops on his way out. “You’re doing better than you think,” he offers.

The olive branch feels like he is signing a particular unpopular treaty with a hostile country but he smiles nonetheless.

“Yeah,” he says.

*

“Thanks for suggesting the movie,” Hotch tells Reid as they walk out into the evening. “I was sleep deprived all week and this just gave me four hours of solid sleep.”

Reid huffs. “You rented a bunch of Adam Sandler movies that last time you chose,” he throws back.

“What’s wrong with Adam Sandler?” he asks almost indignantly.

Reid looks at him like he’s lost his mind. Hotch can’t particularly say that he blames him. “What _isn’t_?” he asks.

“I thought it might be a good distraction technique,” Hotch mumbles almost to himself as they arrive in front of Reid’s apartment building and he waits for Reid to punch in the code.

“It was,” Reid agrees. “You know, before I started questioning all my life choices that led to the particular moment where I was sitting on your couch and watching Adam Sandler dress like a promiscuous transvestite.” He thinks awhile and shrugs. “Just seems like I may have gone wrong somewhere.”

“Reid,” Hotch starts, “you haven’t done anything wrong. Whatever happened to you was because of a delusional stalker who envied your girlfriend. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

Reid looks at him quietly for a moment. “How’s Beth?” he finally asks.

Hotch sighs. “Reid,” he begins, but he’s rudely interrupted.

“This isn’t how we work, Hotch,” Reid cuts him off. “I _tell_ you some things, but that doesn’t mean you can ask me about them.”

Hotch takes a deep breath. “Beth and I… we’re…she’s very understanding about the job,” he struggles to get the words out. “I just don’t think we’re on the same page, as clichéd as it sounds. It’s too much most of the time, and I keep thinking that this isn’t my priority and then I feel horrible for thinking it.”

Reid looks at him, one hand on the doorknob. “I'm telling you,” Hotch’s explanation is simple.

Reid’s shoulder slump. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “It was never my place to take up all your time and disturb your private life.”

Hotch laughs, and clenches his hand at his side to stop himself from slinging an arm over Spencer’s shoulder. “Self-depreciation doesn’t become you,” he states.

Reid looks at him, wide-eyed in his disbelief. “Before my first date with Maeve, I had a hairbrush in my hand and a staring contest with my mirror for a full ten minutes,” he informs. “I was vastly overwhelmed by my own lack of impressiveness.”

Hotch places his hand over Reid’s and turns the doorknob. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go in.”

*

“The problem is,” Reid says over a mouthful of store-bought pie, “that everyone thinks that Maeve’s death has _changed_ me.”

Hotch is very careful to keep his voice neutral. “Oh?” he asks.

Reid nods. “They don’t get it,” he says earnestly, looking at Hotch and _willing_ him to get it. “Everyone thinks that Maeve’s death has changed me but it was never about her death. What changed me was the fact that she was _alive,_ that I was lucky enough to have something with her.”

Hotch feels his heart drop into his pie. And then his heart breaks a little more when he catches Reid still _looking_.

“This pie is _atrocious_ ,” is all he can say in reply.

Reid laughs shakily, and Hotch politely doesn't mention the tears in his eyes. “It is,” Reid agrees with him. “I don’t even think you’ve defrosted it properly,” he adds as an afterthought.

Hotch frowns. “I put it in the microwave and switched it on. What’s the _proper_ way to do that?”

Reid raises a hand in mock-surrender. “All I’m saying is that I can’t bite into the crust.”

Hotch stands up and dumps the rest of his pie into the trash. “Come on, you’re sleeping here tonight.”

Reid looks a little surprised by this sudden change in plans. “I am?” he asks.

“You know where the guestroom is,” Hotch almost smiles into his water as he answers. “And tomorrow morning,” he continues, “you’re going to make me waffles and scrambled eggs.”

Reid looks lost. “Not the toaster waffles,” Hotch clarifies, “but the ones you made from scratch a couple of weekends ago.”

“Any reason why I’m making you something complicated that would require me to wake up at five in the morning if I want to get to work in time?” Reid feels the need to know.

 “Mundane tasks help clear your mind and helps decrease a sense of unease throughout the day,” Hotch laughs.

Reid stares at him. “Where the fuck did you get that?” he asks, and looks much too offended at having been fed bullshit. Hotch stares and remains quiet until Reid simply sets down his plate and makes his way down the corridor to the guestroom.

“And I want extra tomatoes in my scrambled eggs,” Hotch calls out behind him.

Reid laughs, and it echoes all around the bland corridors of his apartment. “Goodnight, Hotch,” he calls behind his back.

Hotch shakes his head, dons a pair of kitchen gloves and sets about cleaning the dishes.

Reid’s laugh reverberates around his living room. He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to commit it to his memory for as long as possible.

*

fin.


End file.
